I write poems and I write prose. I write about love and anxiety and autism. I write about parenting and love. I write serious and I write silly.
I don’t have a niche. I don’t have a direction. I don’t have a thing.
I just write.
I’m not a mommy blogger or a fashion blogger. I’m not a mental health blogger or any kind of blogger. I just have a blog.
It took me a long time to reach this place, the place of sharing the words I have written, and in reality, I’ve not shared nearly as much as I one day hope to. I’m not filled to the brim with confidence like some seem to be. Each time I hit that publish button I’m filled with a sense of dread. It wasn’t good enough to be read. I make myself do it though because the words inside of me want more release than I’ve allowed them.
I’ve been their captor for so long, relegating them to spend their entire existence tucked away between journal covers and computer files, but still . . . it scares me to set them free.
As this new year approached I told myself I was going to let them go, let them flow, and let them fly.
But I haven’t. Not yet. I’ve held them and hidden them for such a long time now, I’m not certain how. I’ve only loosened the leash I’ve used to keep them tightly tethered to my soul.
I should give myself more credit. I’ve taken steps, baby steps. I took a leap of faith and started this blog. I took a few more and sent my words to be considered for publication outside of this little world I’ve begun to create and they were welcomed and sprouted wings of their own.
Still . . .
I’m not sure. Do I find a focus? My thoughts are scattered and random and I don’t think I can rein them in. Truthfully, I don’t really want to. I admire those who write with singular purpose, I am in awe of their ability to do so. I’ve never been the fitting in type, and I suppose I’ll never be. I guess I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing, each day trying to do a little more, each day just being me.
Directionless in the blogosphere . . . but happily enjoying the scenery.